


Leaves From the Vine

by kakfa (orphan_account)



Series: Avatar in the time of Quarantine [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: AU, Child Soldiers, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:02:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23612728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/kakfa
Summary: On that fateful night, Aang never leaves the air temple. But some things never change, even in a world that is slightly different.
Series: Avatar in the time of Quarantine [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699612
Comments: 5
Kudos: 103





	Leaves From the Vine

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: what if aang never left the air temple? written as practice during this quarantine. i take prompts, my PMs are open. no guarantees, but i will consider it!

The horizon is brewing a storm.

Aang takes one breath: his hand on the scroll, a tremble in his chest. The rain is already here, for now a gentle drizzle that wets the temple’s fountains.

“Aang, I’m not going to let them take you away from me.”

In the next breath, Gyatso is there, and Aang feels himself loosen, tears welling in his eyes. He crumples his scroll, drawing it to his heart, suddenly ashamed. “I—I—“

“Ssh, Aang,” The old monk says. A gust of wind blows into his room, a cold caress nipping at his ears. But Gyatso’s smile is warm, and so are his monk’s robes when Aang buries himself in them.

Everything in this life is fleeting, so the air nomads say. 

Aang takes comfort in this, and his moment passes, the way the drizzle passes and gives way to a downpour that soaks the entire temple.

The storm continues all night. Rain falls in angry sheets and violent thunder cracks the sky. The sky bisons huddle together for warmth. He and Gyatso share a pot of tea and some egg tarts the old monk has hidden in his sleeve.

But this, too, is fleeting. And the next day brings them a red dawn.

“Go, Aang,” the older monks say. Aang’s hold on Appa’s reins is loose. There is a comet, drawing a trail of flame across the bloody sky; there are firebenders at the base of the mountain, burning their way up to the temple. 

“Where—Where am I supposed to go?” Aang says. “I can’t just leave you guys!”

Gyatso’s hand on his shoulder feels so old and thin and _weak_ , and all Aang can think of is _the air nomads aren’t trained to fight._

“Aang, it is the duty of the avatar to restore balance to the world by defeating the Fire Lord. You must begin by mastering the four elements. Find the Earth King. Your journey as the avatar begins today.”

The air is hot; everything is fleeting, Aang tells himself. His childhood was fleeting. This temple is fleeting. Even the monks are fleeting, even those old monks who have always been your friend—

Appa drifts away, higher into the hot air. For the last time, Gyatso smiles. “Be good, Aang.” 

* * *

They call it Sozin’s comet. They call it a first strike in the beginning of a war the world has never seen before. They call it the cause of an imbalance amongst the four nations. 

His name is Aang, and he is the last airbender.

His enemy is the Fire Lord. Sozin; that is his name. Fire Lord Sozin.

The people of the Earth Kingdom utter Sozin’s name in war meetings and in the streets. In the rice paddies of villages that the firebenders have come to conquer. In the night when the people of the Earth Kingdom come together and plot to take back what is theirs.

He goes to Omashu one day. What doesn’t surprise him is the fact that Bumi has joined a band of freedom fighters – what surprises him is when Aang tells him he needs an earthbending teacher, all his friend says is, “You didn’t tell me you were the avatar last time you were here. But, well, I can teach you, if you want.” 

In between raids and missions, they train. They ride races, him on Appa and Bumi on Flopsy. Bumi creates wacky schemes that somehow work. They strike when the time calls for it, withdraw when they need to. Of course, the same brain that conceived Omashu’s delivery system as the world’s greatest superslide would be a mad, tactical genius. 

Aang learns: wisdom can come from the most unexpected places. His friend is the greatest earthbender he’s ever seen. Do not underestimate anything, or anyone. Earth is an element that yields only to those with the will to move mountains.

And:

Someday, he’ll have to leave this place. There are other elements. Other people who need his help.

“You know, Aang,” Bumi says right after a particularly drawn out spar. Bumi had tunneled right under him in a sneak attack, but Aang had already come to expect such a thing. Two years have somehow passed. But his friend still has the same bushy hair, and wisdom still follows his gap-toothed grin. “I think you’ve learned everything I could teach you.”

* * *

The South Pole is cold; bitterly cold, harsher than even the strongest monsoons, the hottest desert sun.

But water?

Water is beauty; water flows and streams, moves in gentle curves, rises and falls with the tide, ever-shifting, ever-changing.

Under the moonlight, her eyes shift like the ocean, are blue like the ocean. Water swirls and twists around her like it is hers and only hers to command. She isn’t a waterbending master (not yet), but they train under the same teacher.

He can command tidal waves into life, cut glaciers with rolling whips, and create spears of ice. But what he treasures the most is being able to take the water she bends to him, smooth it around his body, and bend it back to her. She pushes and he pulls; they share the weight of the water between them, an effortless dance. He has always loved dancing.

He convinces a tiger seal to part with one of its tusks and carves her a necklace with it. “It’s not that bad, right?” Aang says, when he presents her his necklace and all that greets him is her expression of immeasurable pain. “They told me it’s supposed to be a token of your… affection. Your great regard. Do you like it?”

“I—I do like it,” She says, smoothing a gloved hand over his. His pulse jumps and his skin burns like he can feel the heat of her touch through their fur clothes. But he doesn’t ignore her eyes, as bright and full as the moon that night, and how they brim with tears. “I can’t do this. Not while the Fire Lord still lives.”

She doesn’t speak to him after. He leaves the South Pole in less than a year. He tells himself again that it’s the air nomad in him; can’t stick in one place for too long. Life is fleeting, the air nomads have detached themselves from all worldly things; somewhere in this heartbreak is some kind of wisdom he still hasn’t discovered. There’s a lesson to be learned here. Somewhere.

(Eventually, he finds it: the avatar state and power unparalleled have been waiting for him, just as destiny and the Fire Lord await.)

* * *

Kuzon doesn’t greet him when he finally makes his way to the Fire Nation. Once, what felt like many years ago, Aang promised to come with him and pick fire lilies for a girl who lived down his street the next time he’d visit. Nobody knew that Aang would be the avatar. Nobody knew that Kuzon would be conscripted to fight in Sozin’s war. Nobody knew Kuzon would die almost as soon as the war started.

He feels as if he should be disgusted, but fire comes easiest to him; it’s all towering flame and flashes of heat, and he slides through firebending kata like they are the twists and turns of an ancient dance. It’s not anger that powers his fire.

It’s not, he thinks. Fire can be angry, violent; certainly, it was violent the day they’d taken the lives of all the air nomads.

But in his hands, fire is calm; he bends them out of his fists with practiced precision, using it between all the other elements. When all else fails, he turns to his firebending, uses it only when he needs to, the orange plumes of heat appearing and disappearing quickly, as ethereal as the ways of his people.

His firebending master is fascinated. He says it’s the first time he’s ever seen fire that feels sorrowful.

Aang’s master is a Fire Nation army deserter; the Fire Nation is not as it was. With his help over the years, Bumi and the freedom fighters have rallied with the Earth King to retake Omashu; the Southern Water tribe has retaken control of the seas, at least in the southern hemisphere. Faced with these losses, the Fire Nation has been forced to retreat.

To be truthful: nothing is at it once was, not really. They traditionally wait until you are the age of sixteen before they tell you you’re the avatar. The combined experience of his past lives confirm this.

But when this all began he’d only been a boy, still clinging to Gyatso for everything.

The Fire Nation Royal Palace feels deserted. They’ve been expecting him, good. He heads for the throne room – if Roku has taught him anything, it’s that Sozin would have been too proud to leave. Too proud to show cowardice in the face of Roku’s incarnation.

Sozin had lost an agni kai in this throne room once.

Aang comes to prove he can lose again.

A powerful gale from his hands throws the doors open; the fire sages are waiting on the other end of the room. They’d become informers of Sozin in the past few years. Of course they would be here.

Sozin himself awaits. He is kneeling with his back to him, a cloak draped on his shoulders, the crown of the Fire Lord in his hair. Agni kai. Just as well; Aang has prepared for nothing less. Old Sozin may be, but Aang has learned to underestimate nothing and no one.

“Fire Lord Sozin,” He says, and settles on a stance. Earth; strong, resilient. Unmoving. “You and I both know I’ve come to end this war.”

But Aang stops and blinks, when he realizes the hair in Sozin’s top knot is still jet black.

And that he’s smaller. _Way_ smaller than his memories tell him.

The cloak falls to the ground. 

“You speak of my father,” An impossibly young face turns to meet him. He’s—he’s wearing nothing but pants, not even a pair of shoes. The traditional attire for agni kai, but something in Aang still falters. “My great father may have passed but I, Azulon, still live. I know you’ve come here for the Fire Nation’s honor, avatar. But you’ll have to fight me for it.”

“But you’re—!” Aang puts his arms down. “You’re nothing but a child!”

“I’m fourteen,” The Fire Lord says, haughtily. He doesn’t move an inch from his firebending stance. “Old enough to win this war. Old enough to f-fight you.” 

Nobody says anything about the crack in Azulon’s voice, or the way his eyes nervously flicker, just for the one moment, at the fire sages surrounding him.

_Fourteen._

Aang closes his eyes in disgust.

When he opens his eyes again, all the fire sages are instantly encased in prisons of earth; Aang bends a continuous gust of air to bat aside the wild flames Azulon conjures.

He walks and airbends, slowly, until he’s by Azulon’s side, and the boy can do nothing but freeze in wordless terror.

And he sheds the avatar state like a dead skin.

“This war is over,” Aang says, and offers an open hand.


End file.
